


That's All for the Old Us

by ghostnebula (gghostnebula)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Alpha Beverly Marsh, Alpha Bill Denbrough, Alpha Richie Tozier, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Ben Hanscom, Beta Mike Hanlon, Beta Stanley Uris, Cuddling & Snuggling, During the 27 Years (IT), Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Hurt Eddie Kaspbrak, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex Omegas, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Eddie Kaspbrak, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24547285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: Not ready to be replaced by those damn heathens her son hangs around, Sonia Kaspbrak goes to extreme lengths to force him to submit to her care. She only succeeds in causing more damage than he's able to forgive her for, and strengthens his ties to his friends in the process.But maybe that's for the best.-Eddie presents, his mother shatters his trust in her, and he retreats to the one place he can feel safe: with the rest of the Losers' Club.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 82
Kudos: 230





	1. The First of Many "Firsts"

**Author's Note:**

> I have been... influenced.
> 
> The rating here will likely change to explicit as we approach the end of the fic, but for the first 90% or so the focus will be on hurt/comfort and dealing with abusive home situations.
> 
> CW for (attempted) manipulation, emotional abuse, and panic attacks/drops.
> 
> [Bother me here!](https://ghostnebula.tumblr.com/)

* * *

Eddie is _quite aware_ of what’s happening, thanks.

If Derry High _didn’t_ fail them on one front, it would be the mandatory health classes they take every year to learn and re-learn about their bodies, about secondary sex characteristics, about what to expect as they present and how to work through it. 

So he isn’t going into this _blind._ He’s known for a week now what’s happening to him, and he knows that the low-grade fever isn’t tied to any kind of _illness._ He knows the chills are his body adjusting to the temperature fluctuations and his heightened senses are an attempt to prepare him for any danger he may potentially encounter as he gets closer and closer to presenting. He knows the overpowering need to be as close to his friends as possible is some latent instinct pushing him to find a safe place. 

He’s also aware that the rest of the Losers have caught on by this point. In the past seven or so days he’s been moody, he’s been tired, he’s been feverish and clingy, and he’s not oblivious to the looks shared between them as he invades one Loser or another’s personal space the moment he sees an opening. He’s been clever about it, though. He wants a relatively even distribution of everyone’s scent in the nest he can feel himself gearing up to building, so he’s stuck close by the side of one person every day, then stored his outfit from that day (sufficiently coated in their unique smell) away in a bin at the back of his closet, which he’s been clearing a space in. There’s a little nook for his nest right in the corner; though any other time he’d think the space was too cramped, right now the part of his brain that’s planning out a nest has decided it’s _just perfect._

If he can get that little spot hidden from view, blocking access to it from the closet door, and if he can fill it up with the scents of all his friends to mask the faint, strangely bitter beta smell from his mother, it’ll be ideal. Then he’s just got to manage a few days, maybe a week, alone in there (somehow convince his mother to let him be, because just the _thought_ of an intrusion has sweat popping out on his back and forehead, a rank tinge of fear to it). He'll keep painkillers on hand, like any presenting omega would have been instructed to do, and if he takes them and just tries to sleep the painful parts away, maybe she won't bother him. Maybe he can just bite a pillow and pretend everything is _fine_ and she'll leave him alone, even if he _is_ in pain. He’ll have to stock up on snacks, something with lots of sugar to keep his energy up, so she doesn’t feel a need to come snooping around to make sure he’s been eating. 

He can do this. He knows he can do this. It won’t be nearly as strenuous or as scary as a _real_ heat, the kind he’ll start having around the time he turns eighteen, but it’s going to be like a trial run. That’s how they talk about it in health class. That when you present, your first heat (or first rut) is going to be like _practicing_ for the real thing. It’ll be all the discomfort and strange new instincts and weird hormones without any of the “sexual stuff” (at least, that’s how Miss Jimmison summed it up when they ran through this unit back in January, before they moved on to the chapter on _real_ heats and ruts). He's going to be in pain, _yeah,_ because his body needs to make the right adjustments to accommodate his changing physiology. He's sure he can handle it. He’s going to want to be held, probably, for comfort purposes, but he’s willing to struggle through that on his own if it keeps his mom out of his nest.

And when the time comes for him to have a proper heat, a couple years from now, well… he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Right now his focus has to be on preparing for the heat that’s coming up _now,_ the one he can feel humming under his skin. He’s trying to be subtle about brushing the sleeves of the hoodie he’s wearing against Richie’s scent glands while they lounge in the hammock together (he’s burning the fuck up, and not just because of the fever, but because it’s _summer_ and he’s wearing as much clothing as possible so he can get Richie’s scent on as great an area as possible -- so he can saturate his nest with it, to the best of his ability). 

Richie’s not _naive,_ of course. After a few minutes of this, he adjusts their position, propping the comic they’re reading against Eddie’s stomach while he drags him up closer. Eddie has to suppress a full-body shudder as the gland in Richie’s neck presses into his shoulder and the ones on his wrists rub over his sides. The additional pressure makes the air around them fill up with a warm alpha smell. It’s mouth-watering, but maybe only because his hormones are totally out of whack today.

They spend the whole afternoon like that, practically unmoving except for Eddie turning a page every few minutes and Richie smearing his scent all over Eddie’s clothes. It’s nice that they’ve dropped the pretense of subtlety, because Eddie is pretty sure this is going to be the last day he has a chance to collect everyone’s scents before the heat actually hits (and, why, _yes;_ he _had_ been saving Richie for last, because _yes,_ he _did_ want to make sure that alpha scent in his nest was fresh -- _sue him)._

When they’ve all gathered up their belongings and left the clubhouse, headed home for dinner, Eddie finds himself _fucking ecstatic_ that they’ve given up on being subtle. He knows the whole “going home for dinner” deal is mostly just an _excuse_ \-- they’ll all be back in the clubhouse after they’ve eaten, except Eddie. They need to get Eddie home because there’s this intoxicating strawberries-and-vanilla scent oozing from him, and he’s probably less than an hour from the full-blown hormone-addled discomfort of his first-ever heat. And they’re good friends, so they’re going to walk him home, to make sure he gets there safe, and then they’re going to return to the clubhouse after dinner with that transistor T.V. Richie found in his basement to watch some terrible movie or another, like they’ve been planning, and spend the next week wondering how he’s holding up. Then he’ll be back, and things will return to normal, and next time they go to Blockbuster to pick out a crappy movie to watch, he’ll be with them. 

The casual excuse to walk him home isn’t the whole reason he’s _ecstatic,_ though. It’s because Richie strips off the ugly flamingo-print button-up he’s wearing and scrunches it into a ball as he presses it into Eddie’s hands, standing at the end of his driveway, and then he gives him one last hug that’s obviously just a cover for re-applying his scent all over as much of Eddie as he can reach. No one else hugs him, probably because they’re not stupid, and definitely because they’ve all at least realized Eddie’s been stealing away their scents one at a time and they’re not planning to dilute anyone else’s for the sake of a goodbye hug.

Besides, he’ll see them all again by next week. So they settle for waving as he skips up the front steps, bathed in that delicious, comforting alpha scent he’s been chasing all day, and closes the door behind him.

“Hi, mommy,” he calls over his shoulder on his way up to his room. He doesn’t stop to greet her properly, or to eat the microwave dinner she’s just setting on the table. He goes straight up to his room, to the tiny space in his closet that he’s designated for his nest, and gets to work. 

He gathers the sheets and blankets from his own bed, that have begun to smell more and more like omega over the course of the last week, to spread on the floor of the closet. Then his pillows, shoved right into the corner so he can feel like the space is as enclosed as possible while he’s lying down. He opens the plastic storage bin he’s been keeping his laundry from the past six days inside of, and starts arranging the clothes that still smell like his friends (his _pack)_ around the nest.

He sheds the clothes he’s wearing and tucks them around the pillows, setting Richie’s shirt right on top, and then he takes a step back to admire his work. 

If he’s being honest, he’d like to include more padding underneath, as the floor of the closet couldn’t exactly be described as “comfortable.” All the other blankets in the house smell like his mom, though, and that’s the one scent he _doesn’t_ want in his nest. He’s specifically gone out of his way to _avoid_ that. Next time, though -- next time he’ll be more prepared. Next time he’ll steal a stack of comforters from the linen closet and keep them in his bed in the days leading up to his heat. Live and learn.

Already he's stocked up on painkillers, fever reducers, and good old-fashioned omega hygiene products to deal with any potential messes. Everything is organized neatly along the back wall, so he doesn't even have to leave the nest to take care of any need that might crop up in the next few days.

Next order of business: snacks. And water bottles. He slips on a set of thin pyjamas, ignoring that tightening in his chest and the shivering that takes over his body as it works closer and closer to a _heat,_ and holy fuck, he’s known this was coming but he still can’t quite wrap his head around it. He’s a proper omega, now, and in a few short years he’ll be all grown up, having real heats that are all pheromones and intensity and _yeah,_ maybe when he closes his eyes he imagines Richie in the nest with him, sharing that with him, and so what? It only makes sense for him to daydream about his alpha friend sometimes. 

(To tell the truth, though, even if Richie had also presented as an omega, Eddie’s pretty sure he’d still feel the same about him.)

So Eddie’s a _proper omega_ now, and he’s got to learn how to deal with all the bullshit that entails, and how to take care of himself through it. 

His mom is still in the kitchen when he gets back down there, and maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that she’s already piling supplies for him on the counter. She’s not stupid -- it’s as clear to her, what’s happening, as it is to Eddie, or to anyone else. “Thanks, mommy,” he says, trying to skirt around her to grab the stash of snacks and drinks. He’s starting to get an itch, right up the back of his head but somewhere _inside,_ that tells him without needing words that soon, _soon_ he is going to want quiet and dark and privacy and the scent of the pack he’s chosen woven into the fabrics he burrows into. 

It sets all his nerve endings ablaze with discomfort when she turns and gathers him into a hug, rubbing her cheek across the top of his head and her wrists up and down his bare arms. He has to make a conscious effort not to jerk out of her grip (she’d be offended, _terribly so,_ and he doesn’t have the capacity right now to deal with her, or to comfort her, because he’s too busy trying to comfort his own self). 

Except she’s _smothering him in her scent_ and he _doesn’t want it,_ and of course _that_ makes him a bad son, doesn’t it? That he doesn’t want his mother’s scent in his nest during his heat?

His nose and eyes sting with tears but he blinks to keep them from overflowing. He doesn’t want to be a bad son, he just wants her to respect his boundaries, and those include not touching him right now.

“My baby,” she coos, rubbing her scent into his hair, “you grew up so fast. This is almost too much for me to handle.”

“I-- Sorry, mom, I…” But what is there to apologize for, really? He can’t help growing up. He can’t help being an omega. The inclination to apologize is just automatic and defensive. 

“Look at you.” She backs away, only to reach out and cup his cheeks, wrists pressing against the scent glands in his neck. “Presenting already. Just yesterday you were a tiny, helpless pup learning to crawl.”

Her eyes are shining with tears, just like Eddie’s, but for vastly different reasons.

_(She’s his mother and he doesn’t want to be afraid of her but nothing is more telling than the fact that he’s_ **_afraid_ ** _of her scent in his nest, on his body, when he’s at his most vulnerable. Nothing makes it worse than the fact that she_ **_won’t let go_ ** _no matter how much he dares to resist. He’s supposed to be_ **_comforted_ ** _by her but he only wants to run away.)_

“I’ll be here for you, okay? Mommy’s here for you. I’ll take care of you. Whatever you need.”

“O-okay,” he rasps, leaning as far back as he _can,_ out of her space, cheeks going blotchy from resisting the urge to cry. She follows, pressing a damp kiss to his forehead before relinquishing her grip. “Thank you, mommy,” he says again, collecting the food and drink she left out for him to carry up to his room.

There’s a leaden guilt in his chest while he strips out of the clothes he’s wearing and crams them in his laundry basket, grabbing a fresh pair of pyjamas and making a mad dash for the washroom. If he can shower as fast as humanly possible, he’ll probably make it back to his nest before that discomfort takes over his whole body. That’s better than contaminating the nest he worked so hard on, and spending his entire heat unable to relax because things are _wrong._

By the time he’s done scrubbing down every inch of his skin and washing his hair thoroughly, there’s a tightness in his chest and his skin is _crawling._ He stumbles into the clean clothes, applying one of those strange adhesive pads to his underwear, just like they showed him in health class, and practically trips down the hall back to his room, the pre-heat beginning to really sink its claws in.

He’s merely a victim to the whim of his instincts for the next week or so, and right now his instincts are crying out for a safe, cozy space tucked away in a corner for him to rest. The muscles in his shoulders and back are tensing from the paranoia of being out in the open like this. The tension creeps up into his jaw and makes his ears ring.

Did anyone warn him a heat would feel so _horrible?_

He’s supposed to feel better once he’s sequestered away in his nest, of course, and that’s a simple enough solution, except that when he bursts into his room, trembling from the fear his instincts are trying to drive into him, panting from the constricted feeling in his chest, his mother is already there.

“What’re--?” A wave of dizziness sends him toppling against the wall and there’s a horrid weak sensation that spreads out from his core, dripping into his limbs and trying to drag him to the floor as he gasps for air.

_Exposed,_ he’s too _exposed,_ he’s doesn’t feel _safe,_ he needs--

“What’re you _doing?”_ he asks his mother’s back. She’s squeezed into the open closet door, rummaging around in there, probably smearing her scent over _everything,_ and as he takes a step forward to stop her, his knees give out and he hits the floor.

“I’m just making sure I got it all, Eddie-bear, don’t you worry. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“Got all… all _what?”_ he demands, forcing himself back to his feet. “Mom, _please_ get out of my nest.” He’s behind her, now, the breathlessness now something akin to how his asthma attacks used to feel, but he doesn’t _have_ asthma, or an inhaler to deal with this, and he realizes as she moves out of his way that this is just _panic_ crushing his ribs and making his head spin. Panic on top of the fearsome vulnerability of his rapidly approaching heat.

She tries to _touch_ him, to touch his face again, and he flinches back violently, nearly losing his balance again, gaze still trained on the disaster on the floor of the closet that was his nest. “All those things you didn’t need, Eddie. From those nasty kids you romp around with. I don’t want you getting too accustomed to their scents. I’m worried you might form some unnecessary attachments.”

_Unnecessary attachments._ _‘You mean like a_ ** _pack?’_** he wants to ask, but the words won’t come. He’s breathing so hard that black spots are erupting across his vision and he knows, somewhere in the part of him that can still think logically, if he doesn’t get himself under control he’s going to cause a drop, and then he’ll have _no choice_ but to be trapped in his mother’s care as she brings him back. 

_She took the scents from his pack out of his nest and left him with nothing._

That doesn’t help him calm down. He _wheezes,_ dodging her clawing hands again. “Whuh...where are they?”

“Eddie, sweetie, I put them into the wash. Those aren’t the kind of people you want to form a pack with,” she says, all _imploring,_ grasping at his shaking hands. He steps back and falls on his ass, and he’s trying _so fucking hard_ not to cry, it’s _burning_ in his throat. 

She grabs for him again, getting his ankle this time, and he makes a noise he never even knew he was _capable_ of making, some low, keening whimper, as the tears overflow.

His _nest,_ she ruined his _nest,_ he doesn’t have anywhere to go and it isn’t safe _here_ and he wants her to _stop touching him;_ he doesn’t like when she touches him, he just wants to go back in time and be at the clubhouse with his friends again and--

“Go away,” he seethes through the tears and the little hiccuping sobs, trying to shake her hand off.

“Oh, my poor baby,” she croons, holding tighter. “You need someone to take care of you. You won’t manage a heat like _this._ I’m not going anywhere. Here.” She shuffles back on her knees, leaving the door to his closet open for him to crawl through if he pleases. He can see the overturned blankets, the empty spaces where his clothes had been, the stash of snacks and drinks piled up in the far corner, his purchases from the pharmacy in disarray along the back wall. The edge of a pillow poking out right by the opening. “Why don’t you go fix up your nest so mommy can take care of you.”

He uses what little presence of mind he still possesses to make like he’s going to obey, crawl right on in just like she wants, but as soon as he’s close enough he snatches up that one pillow and leaps to his feet, rushing out of his room and down the stairs, forcing his trembling legs to _work._ He’s out the front door, down the street, and crashing through the first traces of undergrowth leading into the Barrens before she’s even made it onto the front porch.

Eddie runs like his fucking life depends on it, and considering how close he is to a drop, it probably _does._ Funnily enough, the singular repeating thought in his head as he sprints through the woods is that _he isn’t wearing shoes._ He didn’t stop to get his shoes on the way out, and really, that’s the least of his problems, but then he keeps wondering if he might not step on something sharp and dirty and get lockjaw, and if a drop doesn’t kill him, _that_ might.

His fingers are shaking so badly (his whole body is, really) that it takes a few attempts before he’s able to wrench open the door leading down into the clubhouse. He all but falls down the ladder, pillow clutched tight to his chest, and just _being_ in here manages to relax him, even if only the slightest bit. He breathes deep, as deep as he can, what with the crushing pressure in his chest and the way his throat feels like it’s closing, and makes a beeline for the hammock that’s still saturated with his and Richie’s scents.

There’s a momentary relief in curling up there, wrapped bodily around the pillow that still has some traces of Richie’s scent on it from the shirt Eddie had draped over it. But it’s _momentary,_ because his skin starts crawling again and his brain starts up that mantra insisting he’s _too exposed_ \-- he’s right out in the open here, _anything_ could happen; he needs somewhere _safe,_ somewhere _enclosed,_ something small he can squeeze into and defend the space if need be. Protect himself.

He can’t do that in the hammock, no matter how badly he wishes he could stay right here and just sleep the whole heat away. There’s a creeping tension winding its way through his body, pinching at his nerves and making his heartbeat echo in his ears, and every muscle screams in protest as he rolls himself back out of the hammock and tries to find _something._

_Anything._

By the time he gives up and drags himself into the corner, setting the pillow on his knees and hiding his face there to breathe in the faint combination of his and Richie’s scents, he’s all but convulsing from the force of his sobbing and if he weren’t so busy being _terrified,_ he’d probably have some very real concerns about getting worked up to the point of making himself sick.

* * *


	2. The "Worst Case Scenario" Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley Uris is just trying to live a stress-free life. His friends keep ruining it.
> 
> AKA: Stan finds himself simultaneously caring for an omega in drop and his very doting, very upset not-quite-boyfriend, because no one ever said his life was going to be easy. And he spends the whole time catastrophizing, because the universe just wanted to make his day that much more difficult. Cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:  
> -several references to rape/non-con (Stan worrying; nothing like this actually happens)  
> -mentions of vomiting; no actual vomiting

* * *

The decrescendo in commotion from the Losers’ Club as a whole is a gradual thing. They’ve been teasing Richie until he was red in the face and he’s given up trying to deflect it with jokes, but he’s laughing along with them now, and ‘ _ Yes, Bill, I  _ **_will_ ** _ marry him, thanks Sherlock,’ _ because…  _ duh. _

They  _ fit _ together, and every Loser knows this just as well as they know the sky is blue or that water is wet. They may tease, but it’s loving. Supportive, even. And Richie’s striding through the woods with a little extra spring in his step, Eddie’s lingering scent soaked into his clothes, but  _ that _ isn’t what captures their attention, one at a time.

It’s Bev who stops first, Ben crashing into her from behind as she lifts her head and scents the air, and then Richie, who’s laughing at something Stan said, and Stan’s eyebrows knot together as he asks what’s wrong -- unpresented, his sense of smell isn’t quite as acute as theirs. Still, he can’t mistake it when he smells it, and the sounds of the rest of the Losers around him are fading out, too, as they all catch a whiff of a new-but-familiar scent on their path. 

Fruity,  _ sweet, _ but not warm like it was a few hours ago. There’s a cold and bitter bite to it and Stan’s breath gets stuck in his throat; he wants to tell himself  _ it can’t be, _ because they just delivered Eddie to his home safe and sound and he should  _ not _ be out in the woods, not right now, not in the state he’s in.

The path leading up to the clubhouse smells freshly like Eddie.

It smells like  _ drop. _

Like how textbooks describe the way a drop changes a scent, at least -- they’re all fortunate enough never to have been exposed to something like that.

Until now, apparently. 

Somehow it’s Bill who reacts fastest. He goes tearing off through the trees like a rocket, and there’s a beat before everyone sets off after him.

No one needs to say it out loud for Stan to know they’re all worried about what they’re going to find back at the clubhouse.

And Stan’s not trying to jump to any conclusions, not least because the task of keeping a level head often falls to him when it comes to the Losers, but he can’t help that crawling, sick feeling in his belly as his mind goes down a wild path of conspiracy and he can’t help but wonder  _ how _ and  _ why _ and then, again:  _ what are they going to find? _

And, just to make the sick feeling worse:  _ Is he even alright? _

Sonia Kaspbrak is a beta. Stanley knows this. So it isn’t as if anything could have…  _ transpired, _ right? 

If Eddie left the house, though, to come  _ here _ (and why the hell did he come  _ here, _ into the middle of the woods, instead of staying home where he could be safe and comfortable, in the first place?) then  _ anything _ could have happened between point A and point B, and Stan isn’t an  _ idiot, _ not by any means.

Eddie doesn’t smell like a  _ mature _ omega, but he still smells like an  _ omega, _ and as far as scents go, Stan can certainly understand the appeal. And Derry’s overrun with cruel, awful people, though in particular it’s overrun with cruel, awful  _ alphas _ who--

_ No _

He isn’t going to allow himself to even consider the possibility. He has to keep his cool.  _ Has _ to, because Richie is starting to smell more and more frantic and with it, more and more  _ angry, _ and he’s almost shoving Bill out of the way as he descends the ladder into the clubhouse, a growl already rising in his throat.

_ “Richie!” _ Stan snaps, since evidently he’s the only idiot here who can keep his fucking head on straight. He catches the collar of his shirt to keep him from going any further, and when Richie rounds on him, his eyes have gone dark. His teeth are bared in a snarl. “Richard fucking Tozier, you listen to me. None of this big, bad alpha crap.  _ Cool it.”  _ He blinks dumbly at Stan a few times, a trembling growl still resonating low in his throat, but there’s a ring of blue around his pupils again. “You’re going to scare him.”

And that’s the truth, regardless of whether any of them wants to hear it. Any one of them going down there right now is probably going to freak Eddie out, considering the state he must be in, and Stan isn’t planning to make it worse by letting some over-emotional alpha who won’t see reason go barging into the one place Eddie decided he  _ might _ feel safe. 

Richie shakes his head, slowly at first, and then too fast, and his eyes are clearing but still  _ frantic, _ tears shining in them as he frowns at Stan. “No, I won’t, I--”

There’s a  _ horrible _ sound from somewhere below them -- a sound engineered by millennia of evolution to cater to their instinct to  _ protect, _ to  _ help -- _ and Richie bucks against Stan’s grip. Bill tries to squeeze past them and Stan has to shove him back, until he stumbles into Ben, who’s already busy helping Mike hold Bev back.

“Stanny,  _ please, _ I have to--”

“Let me.” Stan still doesn’t let go of him, and by this point Richie is stretching the hell out of his shirt, trying to tear himself out of Stan’s grip and get down into the clubhouse.  _ “Richie, _ I’m serious. Don’t make it worse. Let me go first. I can help him.”

_ Can he? He’d like to imagine that he could, but none of them are adequately prepared for something like this.  _

“Eddie’s not afraid of me,” Richie says, then, so quiet and  _ hurt _ Stan just might cry, himself. “He’s  _ not.” _

“I think he’s afraid of everything right now,” Stan tells him, apologetically, and finally Richie steps back off the ladder to allow him through.

He all but catapults himself down into the dim space of the clubhouse, zeroing in on Eddie curled in the far corner the second his feet hit the floor. The smell is stronger down here, trapped in an enclosed space, and Stan’s nose isn’t even all that good but it’s still like a punch to the face. 

The steps of the ladder creak behind him. He doesn’t have to look to know Richie’s there, watching. But he doesn’t come any closer, so Stan lets it be. 

Eddie has nothing with him but a measly fucking pillow, and it makes Stan’s chest ache to see. He’s well-read on the importance of nests for omegas. He has to help take care of his pack, after all, and even if  _ he _ doesn’t present as an omega, he knew someone else would. His money has always been on Eddie. And here he is, armed with all the knowledge except that which he actually  _ needs _ in this situation, watching the rapid rise and fall of Eddie’s chest, smelling the  _ cold, cold _ fear-scent rolling off of him. His eyes are entirely unfocused, worse than Richie’s were just a few seconds ago. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s outright hyperventilating, or that Stan can see him trembling from here, he’d assume he was dead from the glazed and unblinking gaze. 

“Eddie?” he calls tentatively, creeping closer, as quickly as he dares to move. Eddie doesn’t look at him, but he makes another one of those sounds that sends a pang of protectiveness right through Stan (probably right through all of them, and he’s  _ sure _ he hears Mike cry out in pain somewhere above him, a few thuds reverberating through the roof as the other Losers scuffle). Eddie’s lying on his side, curled into a tiny ball, and even as Stan watches, he tries to make himself smaller.

A tear rolls down his cheek and soaks into the dirt floor.

“Eddie,” he says again in a voice choked with emotion, “it’s Stan.”

He knows the exact moment he gets too close, because Eddie goes rigid and starts crying  _ more, _ burying his face into the pillow, and he has to take a few stumbling steps back to reassess.

Eddie could very realistically  _ die _ if he doesn’t get this under control, but he doesn’t know how to do that without making things  _ worse _ first. He has to calm Eddie down, but he can’t do that without making him panic  _ more, _ and he can’t guarantee that throwing any alpha from their pack into the mix will help, just as much as he can’t guarantee it  _ won’t. _

Being unpresented, he has the most neutral scent in their pack, and  _ still _ Eddie is  _ freaking the fuck out _ just being in proximity to him.

“I have an idea,” says Ben’s voice from the trapdoor. He’s hauling Richie back to the surface before Stan can react, and Richie starts growling and spitting at him, too, but he goes anyway, because Ben assures him they’re going to help Eddie. They’ll take care of him. How can Richie argue with that?

Stan only ascends the ladder as far as he needs to look up at them all, crowded around the door. Instinctively, he’s drawn towards Richie, because he’s crying like a fucking baby and the fear-scent he’s giving off is beginning to rival even Eddie’s, but Stan holds his ground. He needs to be close to Eddie in case something happens. He’s got one eye trained on the corner where Eddie is lying, sobbing into the pillow, and the other on the rest of the Losers as they look expectantly to Ben, who seems suddenly shy under all the attention. “A nest is the most important thing he can have right now, right?”

Stan nods along with the others.

“And all he has is one measly pillow?” Ben looks to Stan for confirmation. He probably saw when he peeked into the clubhouse after him, but even Stan finds that hard to swallow. It’s probably tearing Eddie up inside to be lying on the cold dirt floor like that, with only one item to bring him any comfort, half out of his mind with panic and fear and discomfort and God only knows what else. 

Stan nods. His eyes burn.

“Let’s get him a nest, then.”

Stan’s designated to stay behind, but Ben and Bev make promises to stop by his house and collect some items for Eddie’s nest. 

Which leaves him to sit here, on the floor, several feet from Eddie, and just  _ watch. _ Watch him gasp for air and cry and try to cover himself with just the one single fucking pillow he managed to bring along, and watch that distant look in his eyes refuse to fade, and watch blood well up in cuts all over his feet and ankles, dripping onto the clubhouse floor.  _ That _ can’t be helping his situation any. Not being in pain, or any additional discomfort at  _ all _ on top of what he’s already experiencing. Not the smell of blood, certainly, which grows stronger while Stan just sits there, completely fucking helpless, and tries over and over to offer soft-spoken reassurances that just won’t make a difference.

If he could -- God, if only he  _ could _ \-- he’d crawl right over there and wrap Eddie up in an embrace, rub his back and pet his hair until he could just breathe again. He’d take the little first aid kit Eddie insists on keeping on the bookshelf “just in case” and clean up all those cuts and scrapes. Far as he can tell, no one’s  _ hurt _ him, not physically. He just scraped the hell out of himself running around barefoot.

He’d do his damnedest to take care of him, if only he was able. 

But Eddie’s too far gone to recognize him, it seems, and any person approaching is only going to set him off  _ worse. _ Regardless of scent, apparently, since despite being unpresented, Stan knows he already gives off a slight scent of peppermint, and that Eddie would know it anywhere.  _ Should, _ at least.

But Eddie only lets out this godawful warbling sound, something between a growl and a trilling cry for help, when he gets too close, and Stan is  _ stuck. _

A pack is supposed to be able to help a member in a drop, on the rare and terrible occasion it might happen, and all Stan has managed so far is to make things so much worse, and he’s no closer to actually making anything  _ better.  _ If he  _ were _ to keep going, invade Eddie’s space, try to hold him and calm him and make him recognize who Stan is, he might just hurt him more, in the end.

It feels like an eternity before anyone comes back to the clubhouse, watching Eddie for any additional signs of distress. Hoping his lips won’t start turning blue. Hoping the shaking doesn’t get worse.  _ Praying _ he stays awake, and keeps breathing, and keeps reacting to Stan’s proximity, because the alternative is so much worse.

The weight of the world seems to lift from his shoulders as the clubhouse door creaks open again and Richie’s shoes appear at the top of the ladder. He damn near topples over backwards under the weight of everything he’s carrying, and it may only be Stan’s quick reflexes that saves him a broken bone or two. “Don’t get closer, Richie,” he reminds him, hands still braced on his back to prevent him from falling. “Just drop that here. I’ll take care of it.”

“But…” In a rare moment of mature acceptance, Richie elects not to continue. Stan’s right and they both know it. Or, at the very least, Stan is the best prepared out of all of them for handling unexpected emergencies like this, and his expertise has rarely failed them in the past.

Stan helps him deposit what looks to be half the contents of his linen closet at the foot of the ladder.

“This one…” Richie picks up a worn Star Wars printed comforter. “Here. This one was on my bed. Can you give him this first?”

Richie is terrified in a way Stan hasn’t seen in  _ years. _ It’s visible, of course, in the wide staring eyes and the tear tracks on his cheeks and the way his hands tremble. And it’s pungent, hanging in the air around him, thick and too-hot and deeply bitter. It makes Stan’s eyes water just being too close, as much as it speaks to an instinct to comfort and protect someone his subconscious recognizes as a member of his pack, even at their young age. 

He could assure Richie that things will be just fine, and that he’s got it handled, and that Eddie will be right as rain in just a few hours, but he doesn’t want to make a liar of himself.

As it is, his own hands are shaking as he takes the blanket.

“I will. Stay here, okay?”

“You got it, Stanny,” Richie says wetly, forcing a smile and tremulous thumbs-up. His other hand is wrapped around the old wooden frame of the ladder, gripping so tight Stan could swear the wood is splintering. 

He approaches Eddie at the same agonizingly slow pace, crouched low to the ground, careful not to make too much noise. Again, Eddie tenses and lets out a soft moan, an appeal for help from his pack, but he’s too far in his own head to register, yet, that the very pack he’s seeking is here to help him already. “It’s alright,” Stan says softly, not even quite a whisper, moving in closer regardless. He holds the comforter, drenched in Richie’s warm scent, out in front of him, watching Eddie’s face to gauge his reaction -- prepared to rip it away if the fear sharpens to a point when he catches the scent. 

But it doesn’t, quite. There’s a shift -- a flicker of something not quite  _ clarity, _ but clarity-adjacent in his dull eyes -- and his head begins to reel back as his mouth twists in discomfort, but before Stan can even  _ begin _ to back off and take the comforter with him, Eddie’s hands have shot out and latched onto it.

His mouth opens around a trembling breath and he actually  _ blinks _ for what must be the first time since Stan arrived here as he  _ rips _ the damn thing out of Stan’s hands and draws it in close to his chest. He breathes deep again, then again, and fresh tears well up in his eyes as he finally unfurls himself from the fetal position to, almost robotically, wrap it over himself. His head disappears under a corner of the blanket and Stan, who is so wrought with anxiety he’s worried he might pull a Richie and just vomit all over the place, has to scrub a hand over his face to wipe away the tears and sweat that are accumulating there. 

He turns to offer Richie a tentative thumbs-up even though the urge to puke is still overwhelming. 

Eddie’s entire body has disappeared under the Star Wars blanket, and Stan doesn’t see the harm in just… placing some other things around him, in the hope he’ll catch on and start building a proper nest (Stan isn’t quite sure if an omega in drop even has the capacity, but he’s going to try to encourage the behaviour regardless). As the other Losers arrive with armfuls of blankets and duffel bags stuffed with pillows and hoodies, he nudges more things into a half-circle formation piled around the quivering lump of blanket that is Eddie. 

The whole affair is painfully quiet. Richie’s ability to lighten the mood seems to have failed him and no one else is willing or able to take up the mantle, so it’s only grim faces and a condemning silence while fabrics of all kinds, saturated in the Losers’ scents, are passed down to him and added to the mess.

Still, Eddie does nothing. Even when  _ everything _ they brought has been placed within arm’s reach, and Stan is sat nearby, waiting, breath held, the Richie’s gaze boring holes in his back, Eddie doesn’t make any move to put a nest together for himself. Hell, he doesn’t even try to peek out from the cocoon he’s bundled himself in.

“Eddie?” Stan tries, as quietly as possible, and in response he gets a tearful, whimpered,  _ “No,” _ but at least he gets a response at all.

“Eddie, I’m trying to help you.” This time it isn’t words, just a drawn-out whine from under the comforter as he draws it tighter around himself. 

The prickling cold smell of drop is still wafting off of him.

Stan pushes one of Bill’s sweaters closer to him. “I don’t know how to make you feel better without a nest,” he whispers, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. “You need one, Eddie. Can you put one together? Just something small, if that’s all you can manage, but  _ something.” _

Eddie’s  _ sobs _ under the blanket and begins crying anew, and Stan’s ears are good enough to pick up on Richie suppressing a growl, but he doesn’t have time to waste talking him down from whatever bitch fit he’s pitching. Stan has more pressing matters at the moment, and pulling an omega out of a drop is the time-sensitive one. 

But he doesn’t know what to  _ do, _ and in spite of being the Loser best equipped to handle this, even if only for being unpresented and therefore less of a threat or  _ whatever the fuck _ omega instincts decide in times like these, he feels direly fucking unprepared to deal with the situation. 

If something  _ does _ happen to Eddie, he’s not sure he’d be able to forgive himself, regardless of whether the other Losers would forgive him, or try to. He’ll live with the  _ what-ifs _ and the  _ if onlys _ until it eats him up inside.

And his heart  _ aches, _ because Eddie’s  _ hurt _ and he’s  _ afraid _ and he’s been thrust into this entirely new  _ thing _ and experienced the worst possible outcome right off the bat. This isn’t how a first heat is supposed to go. It’s supposed to be the beginning of a years-long adjustment period for what’s coming when he’s an adult, not a whole fucking  _ ordeal _ that could very realistically result in death. Sure, first heats hurt -- Stan  _ knows _ that. But the hurt should never be exacerbated by a drop. Eddie’s supposed to have all the tools to deal with the pain of a first heat, and he’s supposed to be in the headspace to use them as needed, not… completely fucking gone from his own mind, curled up under a single blanket without the capacity to even build a damn  _ nest. _ How the hell is he supposed to get through the next few days when he won’t even have that basic comfort available to him?

Stan is definitely at risk of puking his guts out right here on the clubhouse floor, but he steels himself and takes a few calming breaths and figures out his next steps anyway.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. I know things are hard right now. Could I build the nest for you? Would… would that be okay?” he asks, tentative, a flush creeping up his neck. He knows the connotation, and he is neither a parent nor a mate, and he  _ certainly _ isn’t making any attempts at courting Eddie with the offer, but what other choice does he have? 

And, hell, if Eddie doesn’t like it, then at least he  _ tried, _ right?

(He hopes to God he’s right.)

Eddie doesn’t give him any kind of answer, just keeps crying, and the scent of his distress is  _ suffocating. _

So Stan decides, fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? They’re already hovering steady in the realm of “worst case scenario” and there isn’t much available beyond that. 

He doesn’t have a single clue what he’s doing, except trying to make some kind of comfortable space for Eddie to sleep in. Every omega has different preferences, and Eddie probably isn’t aware enough of his own yet to offer advice, even if he could talk to Stan right now. 

He sets about building the kind of nest he’d deem comfortable, himself: a thick bottom layer to protect from the discomfort of the hard dirt floor, a place to rest his head that’s got a fairly even mixture of scents from their pack, and a raised edge comprised mostly of items bearing the scents of their alphas. He has to work around Eddie, who is still cocooned, unmoving, on the floor, and at one point gets too close and hears the sharp intake of air as he goes tense, another quiet,  _ “No,” _ tearing out of him, muffled by the fabric. 

“It’s okay, It’s just me. It’s Stan. I’m putting together a nest for you. Okay?” And the urge to reach out, to just place a reassuring hand on his back, to progress into an embrace, to just hold him until things are okay again, burns in every nerve in his body. He resists. He doesn’t want to end up doing more harm than good with a simple gesture.

Eddie, though, lifts an edge of the blanket he’s hiding in to peer out with wide, shining eyes, not at Stan, but at the sad excuse for a nest heaped up around him, and all at once he’s launching himself forward into it, keeping the ratty old blanket drenched in Richie’s scent close around his shoulders even as he does so.

He still doesn’t smell right, and there are still tears streaming down his face, his breathing too rapid, but Stan doesn’t feel quite so afraid anymore. Not while he watches Eddie settle right down in the makeshift nest, some of the tension running out of his body. 

“Eddie?”

“....Yeah?” Eddie sniffles. He doesn’t  _ quite _ look at Stan, still caught up in his own head, but he makes the  _ attempt, _ and that’s what matters. 

“I want to help. Can you tell me what else you need?”

“I don’t--” Eddie’s voice catches and Stan thinks, this is it, he’s gone and fucked it all up again. “I don’t  _ know.” _ He turns his face against a duvet from Bev’s room, drawing Richie’s stupid comforter up around his ears. 

“Okay,” Stan interjects before he can get any more worked up. “That’s okay! Are you comfortable right now? Let’s start with that.”

Eddie doesn’t give him an answer straight away, but he _ does _ get moving, suddenly enough to startle Stan into scooting back a bit. He sits up and starts grabbing at the things in his nest, drawing them in closer, snatching up a pillow that smells like Mike to tuck under his head, draping a hoodie that someone definitely grabbed off of Stan’s desk chair over himself, then just… taking  _ more. _ He drags the contents of the nest closer and closer against himself until it’s all but trapping him, a tiny enclosed space that he disappears into when he lies back down with a contented sigh. 

Overhead, Stan can hear several sets of footsteps pacing, and the occasional hushed burst of conversation, and he knows they’re all still peering in at intervals to check his progress. He dares say he’s almost elated that he’s, seemingly, succeeded in making things  _ better. _ Not altogether, but just enough. And he knows Richie is still watching, uncharacteristically silent, just as afraid of all of this as Stan is, and then some. 

“I’m cold,” Eddie says finally, quietly, and there’s a note of familiar petty whininess to it that’s more of a relief to Stan than seeing Eddie making some kind of attempt at nesting right now. 

That’s to be expected, anyway. Stan can only imagine if he were to touch Eddie right now, he’d find his skin unnaturally cold, but if he comes out of this drop, the nest will remedy that. 

The problem Stan faces now is lulling him the rest of the way out of it, and he once again finds himself floundering.

“I know. I’m sorry. You’ll be okay, though. You’ll be warm again soon,” is all he can offer, and it’s never occurred to him that  _ in-depth _ knowledge of scenarios like this would ever be required, so he’s just following instincts he doesn’t even really  _ have _ yet to the best of his ability. What’s next? How does he  _ finish _ fixing this? 

He breathes deep to clear his head again, tearing his gaze away from Eddie’s splotchy face and puffy red eyes, and the faint smell of blood reminds him there  _ is _ an important step he’s forgetting, here.

“Eddie, you cut your feet walking through the woods. Is it alright if I touch you? I just want to clean them so they don’t get infected. Okay?” he asks.

Which is the wrong thing to say, because it is very visibly  _ not _ okay, and he knows Eddie’s going through hell right now between the hormones and the strange instincts and the paranoia and the  _ drop, _ obviously, and whatever happened to  _ cause _ it, which Stan is too afraid to ask about. There are no foreign alpha scents on him, but that doesn’t do much for Stan’s peace of mind, anyway, because he doesn’t have a strong sense of smell like the others yet. 

The panic in Eddie’s eyes is visceral, and painful to see, and his breathing picks up again -- infections are probably not something to mention around Eddie when he’s in a fragile state like this, which is something he’d resent Stan thinking, but it’s  _ true, _ isn’t it?

“No, just--” Eddie sucks in a shaking breath and one of his arms breaks free of the fabrics he’s buried himself in, reaching. “No, I just… I’m  _ cold,” _ he wheezes, somehow more plaintive than before. “Can you…?” There’s a brief silence while Eddie deliberates, then he’s reaching more frantically out towards Stan, both arms extended now. “Just lie with me. Just for now.”

“Uh,” says Stan. Richie is watching him. Richie is definitely watching him very intently, and Stan isn’t  _ stupid, _ and he  _ knows _ he’s overstepping, but… what the fuck kind of asshole denies an omega in drop? 

Eddie isn’t in a right state of mind, obviously, and Stan can be sure he’ll regret even asking by the time his heat is over. They aren’t mates. They aren’t courting. And they certainly aren’t kids anymore, building nests as a plaything in the basement at the Toziers’, piling into it to watch movies together, basking in the innocence of childhood. But, in the same vein, they aren’t properly a pack yet, because they haven’t all fully presented. 

They’re in limbo.

Too old for sharing a nest to be an innocent, casual act. Too young for there to be any real sexual connotations. And equally, too young for it to count as regular pack behaviour. 

So where does that leave them?

He looks to Richie, for some fucking reason, like he’ll have any of the answers. Richie shrugs, as lost as he is, but he does say this (however uncertain): “He needs to get warm, Stan. And he needs someone to comfort him, right? If that’s how he wants it done, so be it. It’s his call… right?”

Stan is going to make a counterpoint, something about heat making his brain malfunction, or otherwise the drop making him a little screwy in the head, but Eddie’s hands freeze where they’re grasping at Stan’s wrists, trying to drag him into the nest. His bloodshot gaze whips around the clubhouse, still struggling to focus as he wavers on the precipice of drop, and his mouth falls open around a deep inhalation. 

“Richie?” he croaks, lifting his head higher.

“Eddie, I don’t know if--”

“Yeah, Eds?” Richie responds over Stan, voice raw. 

“Richie, can you...?” Eddie’s getting so worked up again that Stan can  _ see _ it happening, shoulders shaking, breath quickening, and he has to reach out to put a placating hand on his arm out of habit, but Eddie doesn’t shy away, only leans into the touch. His eyes finally find Richie and he scrubs away some of the tears coating his cheeks. “I mean, can you lie with me? It’s…  _ I’m--” _ he stumbles over his words but he needn’t say more, anyway. 

“Of course, Eds. Yeah, I’ll--” But here, it’s  _ Richie’s _ turn to look to  _ Stan, _ because this is all new to them and they never could have anticipated any of it. They have to wonder what the  _ correct _ response is, and whether it’s in alignment with Eddie’s desires. 

Without knowing why or how he ended up like this, they have to wonder -- the question  _ has _ to pass between them, even if it makes Stan as nauseated as ever. Will an alpha in his nest just be detrimental to his recovery?

They can  _ hope _ not, but they can’t know for sure. 

Still, without a word exchanged between them, Richie moves forward anyway, stepping down off the ladder and creeping up to the nest with as much caution as Stan had initially approached, if not more. 

He sits, tentatively, on the very edge of the nest, just within Eddie’s reach. There’s no negative reaction. In fact, Eddie grabs him just the same as he did with Stan a few minutes ago, trying to pull him in closer, and Richie, in true fashion, just goes along with it. He’s all but dragged down into the nest and half-disappears under the mess of their  _ stuff _ that Eddie’s piled around himself. It’s haphazard as far as nests go, but that seems about right for his current mental state. 

Eddie keeps pulling, and Richie keeps going along with it easily, until he’s sandwiched between Richie’s body and the wood-panelled wall of the clubhouse. His shaking fingers curl into Richie’s shirt and hold fast, his forehead pressed to Richie’s shoulder, and just like that the rest of the tension flows out of him in a heavy sigh and his eyes flutter closed. 

“Okay,” Richie squeaks. He’s staring down at Eddie with something like flustered adoration, and as Stan watches, he lifts his own arm, hesitantly, to bring it down around Eddie’s waist and hold him closer, if it’s even possible. 

“I’m gonna…” Stan gestures towards the bookshelf across the room, and the first aid kit perched on top, but neither of them are paying much attention to what he’s doing, anyway. 

In fact, Eddie looks like he is  _ literally _ falling asleep in Richie’s arms already. Which is probably for the best. 

Stan shakes his head disbelievingly and retrieves the first aid kit, sifting through the contents until he finds some disinfectant wipes and Band-Aids. They’re going to have to get Eddie  _ shoes, _ he realizes as he settles down outside the nest and tries to peel Richie’s blanket away from Eddie’s feet to get a better look at the cuts there. Eddie jerks and a short growl rumbles through him -- Richie  _ yelps _ as Eddie’s nails dig into his sides. 

Stan raises both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just helping,” he says, defensive, when Eddie cracks an eye open to squint at him suspiciously. “I’ll be quick, I promise. I don’t want to hear about it when you come back to your senses and realize no one cleaned your cuts for you. That’s all.”

Eddie seems to accept that easily enough, because he closes his eyes and melts back into Richie, and he doesn’t try to fight it when Stan lifts the blanket again. He actually starts purring, even while Stan is rubbing stinging alcohol over his scraped-up feet, though it isn’t a particularly  _ happy _ sound. It’s tremulous at best and -- whether Eddie is even aware he’s doing it or not -- sounds more like self-soothing than an expression of contentedness. 

Stan bandages Eddie’s feet and stays there, on the edge of the nest, unable to resist the compulsion to stick close by and watch over them both like a stationed guard. He keeps an eye on the clubhouse door and gives Bill a thumbs-up when he pokes his head through the trapdoor to check on them, and he reaches out to take his hand when he notices the quiet tears on Richie’s cheeks while Eddie sleeps fitfully against him. 

* * *


End file.
